Buona Fortuna
by Stable Mable
Summary: They say you can't flog a dead horse, and the Boss agreed. In her eyes, however, this was more of a...three-legged donkey: only beyond repair if you didn't give it something to stand on. That was her reasoning when Serraglio came into her life one balmy afternoon, and that remained her reasoning even as a 0.5 metre tall biker aerial bombed an octopus into her pool. Buona fortuna.


_A/N: As it stands this is just a little bit of nonsense for the soul. I present to you the lighter sight of the underground in homage to KHR! And wouldn't you know it, much like my own island I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!_

**Act I: Destiny and Delivery**

A scene so perfect had never graced the earth. You're young, grinning and feel like an outright knockout from the organ you call a heart to the minute particles of dust that inevitably stick to your skin (hope we're bathing tonight). The sun winked right back at you. Could that be why? A mere bout of warmth during winter, as though the sun were asking forgiveness for what went, and what undoubtedly would come? Is the mind of the modern teen that complex?

Hormones, naturally.

Regardless, the most joyful souls take the hardest knocks. So let's see what's come a-knockin'.

* * *

Further along the street and obscured by a sharp turn, a bullet-train was about to take human form. Momentum. He'd explained it was momentum that forced an average-built man from the Karoo across four provinces, just gaining speed like a downhill snowball. To whom, he couldn't quite recall. The persistent jackal? But that would all end now. Today, this hour, would herald salvation! "_Salvezza_!" he screeched like the pumping of gears. Drawn out and booming like a foghorn. Loud enough for the Karoo to hear, pitched enough for Houteville to hear...

"_Salvezzaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!_"...Enough for _her_ to hear. A skid and ensuing black streak revealed a bedraggled madman; predatory glint in his blood-shot eyes comparable to a heat-seeking radar zoning in on everything and anything; no momentum lost by an excess move. The girl had yet to see any of this.

She'd blinked quite lethargically before even deigning to turn her head, then twitched, froze, hopped in a panic, and dived to the safety of a wall. There was nothing but displaced hair and cloth when the dark-eyed beast finally passed. You would think such force would seek a collision, yet the sensation was as no-contact as netball. With heightened senses two bulging eyes followed the blur. Many a body gaped at the escaping bullet and his flipping bird.

"Your problem now, suckas!" he cackled hoarsely. **This, **this was the end. Decay, scorn and madness he'd…_they_ had faced. _"Dare I pray?"_, he thought in a brief clear spell. Does the Lord that left them to Hell deserve devotion from a mad dog? Much later, in a somewhat clearer lucid spell, he realized he was on the road to Mauritius. Then and there he offered his humble soul. That man joined the Catholic brotherhood a year later; he's never been more tranquil.

* * *

Presently, all flies on the abstract and literal wall squinted at the deranged loco motor sprinting without delay to a brighter, more pious future. Ahead they stared, save one man who thought sooner or later to look _up_. The rest followed suit. A dark smudge on the perfect blue sky was growing dangerously. People "hm"'d and "um"d and "uh"'d until a logical answer reigned unanimous throughout the peanut gallery. Clearly, the Mediterranean gentleman was in fact an arsonist, and the rapidly falling item (how high could he have possibly thrown it?) was a bomb, In which case…

En-masse Houtevillians scurried. They wished they could stampede, however, such exertion is not within the Capetonian spirit. They scurried north and south and west, but bomb or no could not compel them to go east for risk of running into men with explosives. Townspeople alike banked on the domino effect assisting their retreat. To be squished in this case was to be saved, so in an unusual reversal of physics, a young woman finding herself at the top of the pile -upon the back of a portly stranger -looked up in horror at the shadowy catalyst.

No grip to move.

No hope.

A short white bread life flashed before her tightly clenched eyes. Displeased, she realized it was her own.

The Item was not a bomb, just a fancy box. Her fellow bystanders were generous enough to keep from turning into protesters when she took it home. It was only fair. A pretty box was worth a broken nose, right?

* * *

**Act II: Revelations and Remembrance**

It was two and a half months later.

The girl's pity-loot was all but forgotten.

Until one day.

It was a Friday afternoon when closet excavation sounded entertaining. Sports gear and bags were fine but hardly worth the inhaled dust, so excavating eventually turned to diving in the hope of something more. Like a child in a McDonald's jungle gym she crawled into her personal debris, got stuck, and thrashed as though a life depended on it (It didn't). When the last hair escaped from the deadly tube she had her vision back and could see the very much foreboding vibrations of the closet. A vague physics lesson emerged and prompted a physically accurate but logically asinine action. A squishy body collided with the solid object to cancel out the dangerous motion. Constructive was her wave sadly, and the closet's dance of death doubled in fervor to the point of a tilt and a monstrous deluge. Teddies charged, board games aimed, coats huddled and rackets swung until finally the ragtag army depleted its fuel and the ardent alleviated save one object: dark, glimmering and fate-defying. Was this the end? Shall a black quad once more be her reaper, proclaiming Death proud though none has called thee?

_WHACK! _

This pain was vividly familiar. She never had thought to open the box, had she? A mild excitement stirred at the possibilities of money or jewelry. Fear followed at the thought of spiders or explosives. But Logic hit them both upside the head with its offer of you-won't-know-till-you-open-the-box-now-will-you? She considered the deep wood and brass latches and tasteful flower carving. Innocent, but Schrödinger's cat could very well be dead; the bomb-toting marathon athlete was certainly adamant about it. Subconsciously she undid the latch. Excruciatingly she lifted the lid.

"Paper." A note, to be exact.

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_Serraglio is gone. Our thing has been one of undeterred machismo and the bedlam brought to this country was divine, but we reckoned one day enough would be enough. Clearly the day has come. Yes, we've always been of…questionable standing, even to the lowest of the low, but by Maria we tried. To the fuzz we gave all we could, and for civilians did our best with our temper. Not always successful, but that's _passione divina _for you. So from me, I draw the final curtain and say so long…_

She had to open a window to compensate for not breathing, because the next few lines made everything clear, and the signature struck with the potency of a Vegas light.

_Consolingly, Don Serraglio_

_(Last and Former Head of Serraglio, South Africa's One True Mafia)_

* * *

And that's the reason you're in the suspicious room next to the computer labs, on a warm Monday afternoon. A little worried, maybe? Confused I bet. But curious to see how this plays out. Pfft, I can see it in your face. You probably have nothing to gain. Everything to lose probably. I could just throw the thing in the ocean and be done with it. We have no business reviving a mafia. I'd say that normally, but to be perfectly honest about half the box hit me in the head. Twice. Regardless I'm asking, if you by chance left your better judgment at home.

Are you in?


End file.
